A sleeper at the station is aflame Part 2

O my garden is only moldy uneven stones laid in the 1930's,
I tried in vain to force some seeds in the slits but my spout
is too big. I told her through the window that I was hungry
for some dirty loving, to be covered in cunt; she continued
on making dough tut-tutting to herself. I could tell she was
interested. Before long the shadows descended and we spent
the evening engineering a machine to fold petticoats.
A Sleeper at the station is aflame, smouldering it will warp
the rails on her arms. Arriving home he deleted all his porn,
the Deity having made it clear that there is nothing more
arousing than a woman who is degrading herself for you, just
for you, without digital hi-defintion glossy photography or
slick multinational marketing campaigns in mind. As Language
is significations unintentional accomplice her resolve dissolves
with each caress, the performance lasts a week.